


Bed Rest

by Meltha



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An injured Angel is protected by Wesley, but who will protect Wesley from himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=softprincess).



> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
> 
> Written for softprincess for the vampires round of maleslashminis. She requested Angel/Wesley, between seasons 1 and 2, an established relationship, and bed rest with no dubcon or Angelus. Hope this works for you.

This was not how I imagined Angel finally coming to be in my bed.

The last demon we fought was particularly brutal, and even with the strength and healing capabilities of a vampire, slash marks left by razor-sharp claws three inches long cause a great deal of damage. Angel beheaded it eventually, of course, but he’s much the worse for wear at the moment.

Cordelia and Gunn left shortly after the battle, intent on a celebratory bottle of champagne that I’m quite sure neither can afford, leaving Angel and I alone. We haven’t expressly stated we are… in a relationship of some kind; I suppose I can’t even explain it properly. Still, I believe they know. Cordelia often has a nearly appalling, provocative grin whenever she sees the two of us together and catches us in some relatively innocent exchange that might possibly be ribald if one were to stretch the imagination to its limits.

I don’t particularly care just now, though. I took Angel back to my apartment over his objections. I know that it’s not so much that he’s afraid of seeming vulnerable physically. After all, he is vulnerable. If he were human, he’d certainly be dead from the damage done, though I suspect by morning he’ll be healed well enough that only a close observation would reveal his injuries.

No, it’s the level of temptation that the intimacy of it all might bring that made him protest so strongly. His curse is a line as thin as gossamer, and we tread it at our peril. There have been moments, of course, when we’ve come close, so close, to stepping close to the point where things might become dangerous not only for us, but for the rest of the world. I admit that while most of me is repulsed, horrified by the thought of what might happen, there is an infinitesimal part of me, in the darkest recesses of my soul, that finds the danger alluring in a way I prefer not to examine too closely by daylight.

I took him to my apartment, and again I insisted over his adamant refusals that he rest not on the couch but in a proper bed. Yes, it happens to be mine, and I suppose my scent is infused in it, but I hoped he might find it more comforting than tantalizing. I went to the kitchen to warm we picked up from the butcher’s on the way home, leaving him in privacy to change out of his ruined clothes and get between the sheets. Judging from the grunts in the other room, I could easily imagine the discomfort of it all, yet I stayed away, careful stirring, being sure coagulation didn’t ruin everything.

When I couldn’t pretend any longer that I was still busy, I carefully poured it into a mug and took it to him. Opening the door, I found exactly what I had expected to find, but it still jabbed at me. He was in my bed, mine, and undoubtedly naked beneath the sheets he had pulled to his shoulders. It was how I had dreamed of seeing him so many times… though, I grant you, without the triple slash marks across his back. I think I must have gasped, quietly. At least I hope quietly, but Angel’s eyes fluttered open, and he moved to sit up so he could drink.

I’d quite forgotten the mug in my hands, though thankfully I had not been quite such a romantic fool that I had let it slip from my grasp and spill on the carpet. The light filtering through the blinds was dim, and I walked to the side of the bed, carefully putting the cup into his hand. He looked at me over the rim, his eyes remaining human as he drank, and I knew that the setting was affecting him as well. I could see want in them. I knew he could see it in mine.

“Thanks, Wes,” he said, carefully putting the mug on the bedside table.

He does everything carefully, really, as though he’s afraid that he might accidentally shatter whatever he’s holding. I wonder what it must be like, to have to hold in that kind of power in every action, but then I suppose it’s not the hardest thing he has to control.

I went to take the mug back, but his hand intercepted me, grabbing my wrist with a speed that was far more than human, and I didn’t look at him for several long moments. I knew that the moment I met his gaze, things were going to change, and I wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. All I did know was I loved the feel of his hand encompassing his wrist, holding it like it was as precious as a Ming dynasty vase. Eventually, I mastered my cowardice and looked into his eyes.

The sadness I always saw in their depths was still there, of course. I don’t imagine I’ll ever know what it’s like to carry the weight of guilt that’s on his soul. I’m not certain anyone has ever felt that enormity of regret in the history of all the world except for him. But there is love there as well, love that is mine and only mine. I saw it first on that night when he clumsily kissed me outside of the office, an act for which he apologized profusely, claiming the previous battle had made him a bit mad, until I showed him very firmly that there was nothing whatsoever to apologize for by kissing him again. That look is there again.

“Wesley,” he says, and the word hangs in the darkened air, and I’m not even aware of it as my name because I’m so enthralled by the sound of his voice, like hearing an opera in a language I don’t understand, not comprehending the words or interpreting the sounds so much as feeling the weight of the emotion behind at all.

He wants this as much as I do. I know that. Perhaps I should have left him there to go home alone rather than bring him here, offer the temptation that we’re both beginning to fall prey to more and more as the weeks turn to months. Maybe part of me, that dark corner, might have planned it this way, but it was never my conscious intention to treat his hurt by increasing his pain in all other respects. But I am only human.

“I’ve thought of you looking just this way,” I admitted, and his grip changed to interlace our fingers. “I think of you so often like this, Angel.”

He nodded, saying nothing, and I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was thinking as he looked into the distance. I began to draw back my hand, making excuses that he should rest, that I would be in the other room, that he should simply call for me if needed anything, that it had been a very long day.

“Stay,” he said, the word sounding like it was torn from him, abrupt and harsh, then repeated in a quiet voice, a note of soft desperation in it, “stay.”

My lips formed the word no, but the syllable died there. If I am wrong, if my love is what kills him, the guilt will never leave me, but that one sin will have a thousand companions that I already bear in my conscience. I am sick of “no,” and if “yes” is what ends the world, then so be it.


End file.
